


Cliffhanger

by Robin_Fai



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Bickering, Fluff, Jakes has legitimate concerns, M/M, Morse is a disaster, People asked for it to be true, and falling off cliffs, here it is, i made a joke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:00:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23893477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robin_Fai/pseuds/Robin_Fai
Summary: Morse and Jakes go on holiday.It was inevitable really that Morse would find a way to get hurt.
Relationships: Peter Jakes/Endeavour Morse
Comments: 12
Kudos: 53





	Cliffhanger

**Author's Note:**

> This fic serves 3 purposes:  
> 1\. The glorious fluff I am so desperately craving.  
> 2\. A bit of escapism – we all are missing our holidays right now.  
> 3\. I can fulfil an insane prompt I practically set for myself when I joked that about the only thing that hadn’t happened to Morse by now was falling off a cliff!
> 
> Purposes it doesn’t serve:  
> 1\. An end to the long fic I’ve been writing since February.  
> 2\. A kinder, less disaster ridden, world for our poor long-suffering Endeavour Morse
> 
> Enjoy!

It had seemed like such a good idea at the time. Morse needed a break from the drag of the daily routine, he had far too much holiday saved up, and Thursday had a caravan on the coast he was willing to lend him. A nice week by the sea. Long walks, fresh air, and a suitcase full of good books. There didn’t appear to be any downsides. 

Then Peter had managed to get the same week off, and it had improved all the more. It wasn’t often they got time off together, and they saw so little of one another now that Peter had transferred. He couldn’t resent him the career progress, but he missed seeing him around the station. They still had evenings and sometimes weekends together, but it wasn’t the same. 

Their first couple of days had been spent lazily in bed, getting up only for more tea, wine, whiskey, or food. It was indulgent and Morse loved every minute of it. He hid a smirk when he thought of how this was most likely not what Thursday had been intending when he offered Morse the lend of the caravan. He had probably imagined Morse annoying the rest of the site with his opera rather than scandalising them all with rumours about the two men staying together who hadn’t opened their curtains for two days.

It was lavish, and wonderful, but Monday found Morse in need of _proper_ exercise. 

“We’ve been getting plenty of exercise.” Peter complained.

“You know what I mean, Peter. I need to stretch my legs”

“I can help you stretch those.”

“And how do you suppose I get fresh air in this caravan?” Morse crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows at Peter.

“We could open all the windows.” Peter smirked at him and lit a cigarette.

_“Peter-”_

Peter’s smile grew wider and he winked at Morse. “Or we could do it on the roof.” 

“Right, well, despite those excellent and _not at all problematic_ suggestions I’m going for a walk. I’ve heard there’s an excellent pub in the next village round the headland.”

“And how far is that?”

“About eight miles.”

Peter sat up abruptly, almost spilling the coffee perched beside him. “You’re walking _eight miles_ on the promise of a good pub?!”

Morse laughed at Peter’s horrified expression. “There’s meant to be a lovely tearooms too. We could get a cream tea. Want to come with me?”

“You are joking right?” 

“I’ll take that as a no then.” Morse smiled at Peter’s still appalled face as he finished tying his bootlaces. “Shame. I was going to offer to buy you lunch.”

“I’ll take the car and meet you there.” Peter laid back and closed his eyes again.

\-----

It was a refreshing walk and the scenery made it worth the while following the coast path rather than the more direct inland route. The views and the warm weather were such that he was surprised he hadn’t crossed anyone else out walking yet. Maybe they were all headed in the same direction, it wasn’t like there was much to see in the tiny village the caravan site was just outside of.

Morse scaled yet another stile that had been almost barricaded by the local farmer. He knew from the map he was on the footpath so he wasn’t too worried by these obstacles in his path. Landowners were always blocking public footpaths when it didn’t suit them.

If he’d been walking the other way, or looked back, he would have seen the warning signs tacked to the fences.

\-----

There was a beautiful view from the cliffs over to the cove. Morse ambled over towards the edge to see what he could make out of the village. Perhaps he’d even be able to see Peter’s car amidst the narrow lanes of thatched cottages and fishermen’s huts.

The grass was soft and springy beneath his feet. The sea below was an unusually calm blue for a British seaside holiday. The sparkling waters filled the horizon with not a boat in sight, and ran right up to the cliffs. It almost looked like it was going underneath the stretch of ground he was resting on, but surely that couldn’t be so. In any case wasn’t going to risk getting any closer to the edge to find out.

Morse took a deep breath of salty air – and then felt the ground fall out from under him.

\-----

Peter had been waiting at the pub for two hours now, and was getting steadily drunk. He’d held off getting food because Morse had offered to buy him lunch, which was practically unheard of, and thus had to be seized upon.

He’d not been worried for the first hour. They hadn’t set a time after all. Then Peter had begun to fret. It was probably needless worrying he told himself. Morse had no concept of time. No doubt he hadn’t really thought about how long it would take to walk eight miles. 

How long _did_ it take?

By the time it had been two hours, and lunchtime was well and truly passed, he was more than concerned. Though Morse had little appreciation of time, his devotion to a good pint was in no doubt. A little voice also whispered to him that Morse was never late for anything that they were doing together unless a case got in the way, and that couldn’t have happened on a coastal walk in Cornwall.

Peter idled up to the bar to return his glass. The barman gave him a nod of thanks.

“Awright. You not eatin’ then?” He asked, looking to the menus that sat untouched on Peter’s table. “Only the kitchen’ll be closin’ soon mind.”

“Apologies. I was waiting for my friend, but he’s late.”

“Where’s ‘e comin’ over from then?”

“We’re staying just round the headland. He wanted to walk. I chose to drive.”

The barman snorted in disbelief. “He’s never walked that coastal path now az ‘e?”

It took Peter a moment to puzzle out what the man was saying. He hoped the pause didn’t come across as rude. “Yes, he wanted to get some fresh air, so he took the coast path.”

“But that’s closed!”

“What?”

“All them storms las’ month. Cliffs ain’t safe.”

Peter felt a wave of panic. Surely Morse couldn’t have got himself into trouble on a quiet seaside holiday. “Are they really that bad?”

The barman put down the glass he’d been cleaning, his expression serious. “When did ‘e set off?”

“This morning. Maybe eight-ish?” Peter tried to fight down the sudden nausea he felt.

“Well ‘e should’a been ‘ere a couple of hours ago then.” The barman began striding purposefully towards the door. “Wait ‘ere. I’ll see about gettin’ a search party.”

Peter hurried after him. “I’m a police officer. I can help.”

“Ye’re a city boy. Stay put so as we don’t ‘ave to go lookin’ for you too.” 

The door slammed in Peter’s face.

\-----

Morse awoke on some soft earth. It was warm, and should have been cosy, but something was decidedly wrong.

He opened his eyes, looked around, and had to close them again promptly. 

He was lying half buried on a ledge half way down a cliff face.

_What the hell had happened?!_

Memories drifted back to him of a caravan, Peter, and a walk along the cliffs. In one moment of sheer panic he thought Peter had been with him, and immediately started to try and sit up to locate him. 

His vision swirled and refused to focus on the steep drop below, or the crumbled heights above. The ground below him did not feel steady. He wasn’t sure if that was the vertigo, the concussion, or if it really was unstable. Whatever the reason, he judged it best to lie back down and close his eyes again.

He remembered now that Peter had not come along for the walk, so he was safe at least. Despite his own rather dire circumstances, he felt a sense of relief at that. It also meant that someone knew where he was, and was expecting him. So maybe he would be found in time. 

Morse’s mind drifted to what might have happened if he had come on holiday alone. It wasn’t a pretty thought. There would have been no one looking for him then, and he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to scale the tumble of scree above him without ending up in the sea. He would’ve had to hope someone passing by would spot him. 

Maybe he should be calling out? Or would that destabilise the earth and rocks above him and cause another landslide?

\-----

Scarcely ten minutes after the barman had left he returned to find Peter pacing the floor of the small pub. The other patrons were watching him nervously.

“We got a boat checking the cliffs and a team headed up to check the path. Don’t you worry. We’ll find your friend.”

“I want to go with them.” Peter demanded.

“Look lad, they’re trained in this stuff and know these waters and paths like the back of the hand. Ye’d only hold them up.” The barman was gentle but firm. Peter knew the sense in it, but he hated waiting. The barman guided him back to his table. “Set down. I’ll get ye a drink and a sandwich and we’ll have an answer for you in no time at all.”

\-----

The sound of voices below him made Morse start awake again. When had he drifted off? He chanced a look down to the sea. A small boat bobbed on the gentle waves.

“Can you hear us lad?” A distant voice called.

He wasn’t sure his voice would carry so he cautiously raised an arm and waved to the boat.

“Stay put, we’ve got people coming along the top. We’ll have you safe soon.”

Morse waved again and tried to stay awake. He ached as if he’d been beaten but nothing felt broken. Except maybe his head. 

The people in the boat called up to him periodically to check he was still alive. He dutifully raised a hand each time, but he did wish they would let him sleep.

Some time later their calls were matched by others above him, then faces peered over the edge. It didn’t seem so far to the top as it had before.

“You alive down there?” One of the faces called to him.

“I’m fine, thank you. Just bruised.” A strange thought occurred to Morse of how that sounded like he was sending them on their way. “I don’t think I’ve broken anything but I’ve not moved in case this isn’t stable.” He clarified.

“Right. I’ll get a rope down to you shortly. If you can get that round you we can haul you up. That’d be the safest option.”

“Okay. Thank you.” The situation, though dangerous, was absurd. Morse was beyond embarrassed.

\-----

It took a fair while to get the rope harness secured and for the team to slowly haul him up. Twice the ground gave out a little more. Morse clung to the rope as if his life depended on it. Which it did of course.

Finally it was all over, and he was whisked away on a stretcher despite his protests of being ‘fine’. He was met at the ambulance by a grim faced Peter. He wasn’t sure if he was worried or angry. He’d bet on both.

“I’m fine, Peter,” he tried to reassure him. “The stretcher is just a precaution. It’s only bruising.” 

Peter stared at him as if he was mad then got in his car to follow after the ambulance without a single word to him.

At the hospital, the doctors checked him over thoroughly, and backed up his earlier assertion. 

“You’ve been very lucky. A few cuts and bruises, and a concussion. Most folk wouldn’t have survived such a fall.” He was told by the stern faced consultant as he was discharged.

Peter still wasn’t talking to him.

\-----

Peter couldn’t say for sure why he was so angry with Morse. Perhaps it was fear of losing him, or frustration that their holiday had been ruined, or maybe simple incredulity that Morse seemed completely matter of fact about the whole thing. Why wasn’t the idiot more shaken up? He could have _died_

“When are you going to talk to me?” Morse asked. He was looking out of the car window as they drove back to the caravan. As sure a sign as any that he was assuming that Peter was going to leave him. It was an insecurity that surfaced all too frequently for Peter’s liking. He needed to reassure him, but feared his anger would derail his efforts.

“I’m not ‘not talking to you,’ Morse.”

“Hm. That’s not how it seemed when they brought me back, or at the hospital.”

“What was I supposed to say? I couldn’t exactly hold your hand and tell you everything would be alright now, could I? Besides, you were _fine_ apparently.” His words came out more bitter than Peter intended.

Morse scowled. “I was fine, and I didn’t need coddling, but a hello would have been nice.”

“Oh hello Morse, how was your little walk off the edge of a cliff?” Peter said in a mocking tone.

“Now you’re being ridiculous.”

Peter gripped the steering wheel tightly and gritted his teeth. Morse would be the end to his sanity one day. “The fall might not have killed you but I still might.”

“It wasn’t _my_ fault.” Morse shot back at him “It wasn’t like there were any signs.”

“There _were_ signs, AND all the gates were locked! Plus, if the barman is to be believed, you’d have had to get over barbed wire just before you got to where they found you!”

“Well I didn’t see any.” Morse rubbed at a bruise on his temple and resumed staring out of the window. His face was tight with pain. 

Peter sighed. If only the idiot wasn’t so stubborn. Or prone to injury. They pulled up in the caravan park. “Look, Morse, I don’t want to argue with you. But _please_ could you stop trying to give me heart failure.”

“I only went for a walk.”

“Let’s not start that again.”

“Then what should we start?” Morse shot him a hopeful look. 

Peter turned off the engine, leaned back into his seat, and closed his eyes. “Oh no. No. You are getting a good night of sleep. Once I can stop monitoring your concussion of course.” 

Peter’s patience was wearing thin. _How could Morse be flirting at a time like this?!_

“Peter, we _are_ on holiday...” Morse nudged him. Peter’s patience cracked. 

“YOU FELL OFF A CLIFF MORSE!”

There was a long silence, then Morse got out of the car and made his way slowly to the caravan. Peter sat alone for a while longer. He tried to slow his breathing and regain some control of his temper. Eventually he felt calm enough to follow.

Morse was sat at the table with a glass of whiskey when Peter arrived. It was such a small space. There was nowhere to escape to. Nowhere to hide. Peter slid in to the seat opposite. Morse looked away.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout. It was just...” He took a deep breath. “You scared me. I was so scared. You didn’t show up to lunch. Then they said that path was closed and dangerous, and I just knew you’d still be walking it, and I had to wait there and act like I wasn’t scared I had lost the most important person in my life. You’re always getting hurt, and I can’t be there for you. I can’t hold your hand in an ambulance or in hospital. Every day I just have to wait and wait and hope you come home.”

Morse looked at him. “You could hold my hand now.” He reached out his hand across the table. Peter took it without hesitation. He knew Morse wouldn’t match his honesty, but the small smile he received more than made up for it.

“How do you manage it? How do you end up falling off a cliff the one time we take a vacation?” He asked. 

“I don’t intend to get myself hurt you know.” Morse grumbled. “And I didn’t fall – the cliff collapsed under me.”

“Are you seriously going to be pedantic about _how_ it happened?”

“It’s the only defence I’ve got.” Morse smiled at him again and Peter felt the last of his anger melt away.

Peter let Morse’s hand go, got up, and moved round to sit next to him. He was tired of not being able to feel the reassuring warmth of Morse’s body against his. “You’ve got no defence. You’re a disaster prone idiot.”

Morse took his hand again. “You picked me. What does that make you?”

“Fair point.”

Morse lent his head on Peter’s shoulder and closed his eyes. “So I win?”

“You fell off a cliff today. You’re not the winner of anything.” Peter smiled as Morse curled up against him. Sometimes he loved the way Morse could never concede defeat. How boring it would be to love someone that had no opinions.

“You picked me, and I survived both falling off a cliff and your wrath over it, therefore I win.” Morse asserted, though his voice was sleepy.

“You know you can’t sleep yet.”

“I know.”

“Later.” Peter wrapped an arm around Morse and kissed his head. 

“What should we do tomorrow?”

“Go to that stately home you were on about maybe? We could see how long it takes you to fall in the lake,” he joked.

“No. I’ve already ticked off 'fallen in a lake'.” Morse replied with a smile that made it hard to tell if he was entirely joking.

“What, is there a list now?” Peter laughed. “Perhaps you ought to give it to me so I can see what I’ve got still to look forward to.

Outside the day was giving way to night. Soon they would be able to sleep. Until then, they were safe and warm and Peter was going to make sure nothing else happened to Morse on his watch. They had four more days of holiday to look forward to. They would have to make the most of them, because Peter was certain that when they got back Thursday was going to kill them both when he heard about Morse’s walk.

**Author's Note:**

> This is not my finest work but my brain is now mush. Anyways, I hope it provided some small amusement. These boys really do make me happy on a grey day.


End file.
